Southern Nights
by I-Love-Capn-Raydor
Summary: random.  brenda/sharon.  no spoilers. **NOW COMPLETE**
1. Chapter 1

It's the kind of hot that Brenda remembers from her childhood. The sort that curls her hair damply at her neck, leaves a sticky sheen across skin, no matter how hard you flap the Martin Luther King fan you got at the Baptist church that one time. It's the kind of hot that she moved away from, a humid heat, that scorches your sensibilities, makes drunk men fight, and women who mightn't otherwise, end up in a bed they don't quite mean to be in.

But she is here again. And her tolerance to this sort of assault has waned. She can taste the salt of her own sweat on her lips, she knows that her hair is beyond repair, and all she can think of is Sharon. It was too soon, of course, to invite her to meet the family. Certainly too soon to suggest that her parents accept this new relationship under their roof. Oh, her mama might have an inkling, she supposes, as she lazily kicks the porch swing into motion again, but her daddy would keel over dead. And that's why Sharon is thousands of miles away, and Brenda is sweating against the same wooden slats that had cradled her as a girl.

You would think, that as the sun set, the heat would diffuse, become less like a blanket on your skin, but that doesn't really happen, and Brenda has long since misplaced her Baptist church fan. The mosquitos buzz angrily, thwarted by the screened porch she'd been able to buy for her parents after her second promotion. So she is daring, in a pale peach tank top, and a pair of jeans that might have been Sharon's, and she hopes that they weren't because now they're shorts, hitting well above the acceptable limit of 'just above the knee'.

She looks at her phone again. The accusatory words seem to reflect the heat of the approaching evening back against her eyes.

"I would've come with you. All you had to do was ask."

She knows that it's true. That right now, in the suffocating air of this August night, she could be holding Sharon in her arms. She's been here two days. The funeral for her Nonny is tomorrow, and she will leave the day after that. She hopes that she will find the words to reply to Sharon, something that will heal the damage she never meant to cause.

The hinges on the screen creak, and she looks up, to see Willie Rae holding out a glass of sweet tea, and that it is already sweating, despite the Central Air unit her daddy didn't want her to buy for them after she moved to DC and discovered how much easier it was to think when you weren't on fire all the time. She sits up a bit, and takes the glass from her mother's hand, sipping gratefully.

"You wanna talk about it, sugar?" Her mother's voice is a softer sort of southern. The kind that reminds you of beaches, and raking for oysters.

"It was Nonny's time to go, Mama. She was 99 years old. I will miss her, but I'm sure she's in a better spot." Brenda knows that Willie Rae has had a strained relationship with her Nonny. Clay's mother had never approved of their union, since Willie Rae was from the coast, and not even a city on the coast, just, a little village, with a booming shrimp trade, and separate water fountains until the early 70's.

"That's not what I mean. Who's got you lookin' like your puppy just got run over?" Willie Rae looks at Brenda with the same sort of look that had had a younger her confessing to breaking curfew, and necking with Jesse Collins under the bleachers until the mosquitos got so thick you could hear their wings.

"Mama…" She couldn't admit, even to her mother, that the one person she wanted most was on the entire opposite coast, and probably wasn't speaking to her anyway.

"I won't pry, Brenda Leigh. You are an adult, and you make your own choices, you always have…but if this person, I assume it's not a man, or you would've mentioned by now, if she makes you as happy as you've sounded the last few months? You go back to California on your knees, and you beg. Happiness like that doesn't come along twice. Don't you throw it away cuz of what you think your daddy and I might say." She pulls herself to her feet, and runs her hand tenderly over Brenda's sweaty hair. "I love you no matter what. So does your daddy, even if he does act like a jackass now and then."

Brenda's eyes widen. She's never heard her mother say anything other than kind words about her father. She's about to reply, when the sweep of headlights cut across the narrow strip of grass they called a driveway down here. Willie Rae squints into the darkness, then smiles.

"Your daddy and I are going to bed. Don't be up all night." Her mother winks, _winks!_ And walkes into the house, shutting both the screen and the door. Brenda blinks after her, then turns at the sound of footsteps on the porch. The neighbors have been generous with casseroles. They will be eating cream of something baked for at least a month after Brenda leaves, but it's unusual for a neighbor to come so late. Grief is best addressed in the heat of the day, when perspiration helps you keep that stiff upper lip, so you don't give the Methodists anything to gossip about at the next bible study. She stands to greet the caller, putting her hand on the outer screen door.

"You never texted me back." There is no twang, no southerly lilt to this voice at all, but it is a voice Brenda knows as well as her own.

"Sharon." She breathes, stunned. Then she flings the door open, and pulls the woman against her, the tears she's held at bay since leaving California falling freely. She's heedless of the heels and silk, pressing her damp body against Sharon's curves, as she clings, terrified that she's finally snapped, that the heat has driven her certifiably insane, like that one Yankee who never could adjust, and swore he saw Elvis Pressley everywhere.

"I was concerned that you'd been injured." Sharon keeps her voice low, her tone distant, even as her arms find their way to the places on Brenda's body where they fit best. "You didn't leave me a flight itinerary."

Brenda laughs through her tears, looking up at Sharon in relieved disbelief. "You work for the LAPD. We find people on flight manifestos all the time. You thought…did you DRIVE here?" She is suddenly aware of the association between the car and Sharon's appearance.

"Using my LAPD credentials to find my absent girlfriend would have been a misuse of my authority. And no, I took a flight. Coach." She manages to make the last word seem unpleasant.

Brenda can't think anymore. Sharon is here, in her arms, and it is so hot, and her mother has suggested that she go to Sharon on her knees, but Sharon is here, so Brenda does the only thing that seems sensible. She curls her arms against the planes of Sharon's back, sliding a hand up into the tangle of hair hanging heavily against the neck she loves so much, and she pulls Sharon into a kiss. But it's not any kiss. This is the sort of kiss you would only bestow on a person who had flown, _Coach_ across the country because they were _worried about you. _Her tongue is demanding as she sweeps it against the delicate skin of Sharon's lower lip, feeling her own body sag with relief and tighten with arousal when Sharon allows her access, tasting of poorly brewed sweet tea, and the salt of every southern kiss.

"I missed you." She whispers against the kiss, before delving back into the dark promise of Sharon's mouth. "I wanted you to come. I thought…" She nibbles gently on Sharon's jaw, "I thought it was too soon, and I didn't want to scare you away."

Sharon is beginning to relent, her tongue tangling with Brenda's, and she hears the words Brenda isn't saying; don't leave me. Her anger melts in the heat of the evening, and beneath the force of Brenda's passion. She skims her hands over shapely thighs, teasing the torn edges of the denim.

"I've never seen you in jean shorts. And if you wanted me here, as I said, Brenda, all you had to do was ask." She slips her hands into the back pockets of the shorts, feeling very much like a teenager, as she pulls Brenda firmly against her, arranges her so that she straddles Sharon's thigh.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just..I think these were your jeans." Brenda is busily unbuttoning the ridiculous silk blouse, because, honestly, she can't not be touching Sharon right now, and also, who wears silk to Atlanta in August? Her mouth is mapping a heated trail, and Sharon's head falls back, as Brenda licks from her jawline to the lace edge of her bra, before tonguing her nipple hard through the lace.

"You do realize that we're on your parent's porch?" Sharon hisses, even as her hands are guiding the gyration of Brenda's body against her own, even as she matches the pace, her skirt somehow having made its way up to her hips, and the heat of Brenda's skin against her equally impractical silk panties is maddening.

"They're in bed. And daddy has apnea, so the CPAP machine means they can't hear us at all." Brenda gasps, as Sharon's hands find her breasts, talented fingers teasing her nipples through the thin cotton of the tank top.

"I have a hotel room." Sharon is sucking the sticky flesh where Brenda's neck and shoulder meet, the place that makes Brenda make that noise that sends jolts through Sharon's body.

Brenda groans, and grinds harder against Sharon's thigh, all of the heat and humidity of a southern summer night seems to have congregated here, where their bodies meet, and Brenda knows when Sharon's teeth graze that spot, that neither of them are going to make it to the hotel room, at least not yet. So she ignores the implied invitation, and focuses all of her attention on freeing Sharon's breasts from the lace, teasing the dusky tips with her tongue, until she feels the quiver begin in Sharon's thighs, and then she moves, trapping the slick nipples between her fingers, capturing Sharon's lips, and plunging her tongue in, a graceless, clumsy kiss, as she pinches the tender nubs, holding the weight of those beautiful breasts in her hands. Sharon moans into the kiss, and her whole body shakes against Brenda's, as she holds onto denim clad hips, feeling the echoing shudders from Brenda's body.

The sound of their breathing is louder than the mosquitos, as they lean their foreheads together.

"I want you to meet my family." Brenda finally says, and her voice sounds gruff from the gasping.

"I hope you understand, I'm going to need to go take a shower and change clothes. I hardly think this is an appropriate first impression." Sharon smirks, and Brenda knows that she's teasing, the glow of that smile goes right through her.

"Maybe I should run in and leave a note, grab my bag. Let them know that I'm going to make sure you don't get lost on the way to the hotel. It all sort of looks the same down here, til you get the hang of it."

"The GPS in the rental actually works." Sharon replies, as Brenda begins straightening her clothes, her hands tender as she buttons Sharon's shirt back up, smoothing the skirt back down.

"Still. It'd be unmannerly of me not to accompany a lady to her overnight accommodations." She imitates her father's city south twang, her vowels becoming almost optional. Sharon chuckles, and smooths back an errant lock of Brenda's hair.

"All right. I'll go turn on the A/C in the car. What will you tell them tomorrow?" She wonders, as Brenda puts her hands on the railing behind Sharon, and stretches her back.

"That you're coming to breakfast. And then, to my Nonny's funeral, if you'd be okay with that. She would've liked you, I think. You both have that…first child syndrome." Brenda bumps her hip against Sharon's.

"All right. As long as it doesn't disrupt the service, I have no problem with attending." Sharon nods. She kisses Brenda's bare shoulder, then pulls open the screen, and starts down the steps. "Try not to disappear between the porch and the car, okay?" She tosses over her shoulder, tone light, but she knows Brenda hears what she isn't saying.

"I'm coming right back. Won't even have a chance to miss me."

"I've had enough of that for the week, anyway." Sharon retorts, and then they are moving in separate directions, but Sharon knows that Brenda is coming back this time, so she feels fine about injecting a little levity. God knows, when it's hot like this, you have to keep a sense of humor about you.


	2. Chapter 2

Sharon wonders if her lungs will ever work properly, or if she will be forced to rapidly evolve, and grow gills to breathe through the damp in the air today. Brenda is standing stoic alongside her, and the set of her body suggests that there are more tears in waiting, although Sharon knows that they will not fall here, in front of everyone. It's a peculiarity she's not familiar with, this dry faced grief. Brenda shrugged it off, allowing that the children of the deceased could shed a tasteful tear or two, but that sobbing was the sign of the low-brow. Sharon watches as first Clay, then his brother, then Willie Rae, and Brenda, and her brother, and their cousins, step forward and drop handfuls of earth into the hole in the ground. So much of the dirt is sand, even this far inland, that the breeze catches it, swirls it around, before letting it fall. She can't quite believe that the dirt isn't immediately turned to mud upon contact with the air, that's how humid it is. Her linen blouse is stuck to the small of her back, and she's thankful that it's dark enough that the spots of moisture won't show. The Pastor has finished his ceremony, and people are shuffling away. She notices that they are careful to walk between, rather than over, the graves. This makes it take twice as long to reach the limo.

The ride to the reception is silent, except for the ferocious hum of the air conditioner. Sharon can feel the heat of Brenda next to her, and she's really not sure what's colder in comparison, the breeze from the vents, or the glare she receives from Clay when he notices that their knees press together. Sharon knows that it must have been a shock to him, when Brenda dragged her to the Johnson breakfast table and announced that they were partners. He'd grinned at first, thinking she meant at work, until she pointed out that she hadn't had a work partner since she worked for the DC force. Sharon watched the realization dawn, and she gripped the back of the chair, waiting for the inevitable eviction. Willie Rae had surprised everyone by tugging the chair from Sharon's death grip, and gesturing for her to sit. The meal went on as though Sharon and Brenda weren't there, and it was only the somber occasion, and her knowledge that Brenda had loved her grandmother, that kept Sharon from throwing up her hands in exasperation, and going back to the hotel to sit by the pool.

The reception, as Brenda had referred to it, was being held at the local fire station, since although Clay and Willie Rae have a nice home, it isn't large enough to accommodate the well-wishers all at once. Sharon is baffled by this tradition as well. The whole town seems to have come to say good bye to a woman, who, by all accounts, was an unmitigated racist, and classist old bat. Yet they are reverent in their respect, speaking of her skills at canning berry jams and chutneys that never lost their color in the pantry, and the speed with which she could turn out a knitted baby blanket, once she knew someone was expecting. These do not seem like redeeming personality traits to Sharon, but she's decided that trying to understand the Southern experience is probably as difficult as understanding the Jimi Hendrix experience without enough illicit drugs to drop an elephant.

The limousine slows, and Clay speaks for the first time since the morning.

"I would rather you not come at all, than come in and disgrace her memory." He growls, making the word all have two syllables.

"Daddy!" Brenda exclaims. "What on earth do you think I'm going to do? Throw her down among the melon balls and have my way with her?" She's flushed red, and Sharon is struck by the enticing visual of being had on a fire station table.

"Brenda Leigh, don't you talk to me that way. You just behave like the lady I raised you to be. And make sure your friend doesn't embarrass the family." He bites back sharply, before exiting the car.

Willie Rae looks at them, her eyes soft around the edges. "Don't mind him. He's already coming around I think. After you two went back to the hotel, to get dressed, he looked at me, and said, 'at least it's not a colored boy.' I know you think that's racist, but I call it progress." She smiled, the skin at the corners of her mouth still showcasing the dimples that Brenda had inherited, and Sharon couldn't bring herself to explain that acceptance because of the intolerance of something she wasn't, was a dubious acceptance at best.

Brenda groaned, and looked at Sharon as though she were expecting her to bolt. As if running anywhere in 90 degree heat with 80 percent humidity was even possible. Sharon thinks maybe everyone in Atlanta had gone a little crazy, herself included. So she pats Brenda's knee, and follows Willie Rae out of the car, and into the fire station. She sees a huge orange thermos, and hopes beyond all reason that it has coffee in it. She grabs a paper cup, and holds in the sigh as sweet tea swirls a watery brown. Brenda is hovering near her, and she smiles a valiant smile. People are milling about, and eating, and talking, and this looks very much like a wedding reception, except there's no bride, and everyone is in dark colors.

"Explain to me the theory behind this get together again?" She murmurs to Brenda, as she takes a sip of the cloyingly sweet beverage. The weird thing about sweet tea is that no matter how many ice cubes you add, it never tastes cold. Sharon thinks perhaps there's no less refreshing drink on the planet, except maybe salt water.

"People love an excuse to have a potluck. We're Protestants." Brenda shrugs, and fills her own paper cup with tea. Sharon is sure it tastes like home to her, if the way her eyes close when she swallows is any indication. Brenda is a different person here, in the heat and the judgment of the south. Sharon loves her, of course, but it's unnerving to see the strong, sassy, sarcastic woman she fell in love with, suddenly sweet, and almost demure. She leans in closer, hoping to raise a spark of the Brenda she's most familiar with, and begins to speak.

"Could you do me a favor, and point out the melon balls?" She knows that her voice, in this register, makes Brenda instantly wet. She can tell that today will be no different, as Brenda's weight shifts from one leg to the other, and a scarlet flush blooms over the back of her neck.

"You're terrible. Just awful. This is a reception!" She hisses at Sharon, not making eye contact.

"You suggested it. But I am not well versed in southern cuisine. And I'm intrigued by the idea of a ball of melon." Sharon is fairly purring now.

"You've never had a melon ball?" Brenda is incredulous.

"I have not. My melons come in standard crescent format. I've seen the square Japanese watermelons, though. They're not as sweet as the naturally grown ones." Sharon is trying hard not to grin.

Brenda gestures to the table, and it's true. There, on a plate covered with plastic wrap, are perfectly rounded bits of cantaloupe, and honeydew, and watermelon, skewered on abnormally long toothpicks.

"Witchcraft!" Sharon whispers dramatically, causing Brenda to laugh inelegantly into her tea.

"You can get a melon baller at Wal-Mart, Sharon. Or even that William Panama place you like to get your fancy kitchen gadgets, I bet." Brenda retorts, once she's caught her breath.

"Williams-Sonoma, Brenda. And it's not that fancy." Sharon rolls her eyes.

"I'm sorry. $22 for measuring spoons that don't even have a quarter teaspoon measure is fancy. Stupid, but fancy." Brenda is more like the Brenda Sharon has been missing since she awoke to the empty bed, the cryptic note, and the sudden surety that she'd never see the blonde woman again if she didn't get on a plane and make a _gesture._

"I concede." Sharon smiles. She can feel eyes on her, and she turns, her smile faltering, as Clay is barreling towards them, a grimace on his face.

"Brenda Leigh! Have you had a chance to catch up with your cousins?" His voice is loud in the room, and people turn to look.

"I was just getting a tea, Daddy." Brenda holds her cup up in deference, and Sharon wants to scream.

"Go say hi to your family. It's why we came, after all. I'll be over shortly. I'd like a word with your father, if you don't mind." Sharon has her 'Captain Raydor' voice on, and Brenda is instantly wary.

"I don't think…why don't you come with me?" She pleads, her voice a little desperate.

"No, Brenda Leigh. Sharon is right. She and I need to have a little chat." Clay reaches for a paper cup, and it is dwarfed in his fist as he fills it with sweet tea.

Brenda nods, slowly, still looking at Sharon, who is looking everywhere but at Brenda, then she turns and walks to the corner of the room where her cousins are gathered, rapidly enveloped in enthusiastic hugs.

Sharon looks at Clay. "You don't like me." It's not a question.

"I don't like what you're making Brenda Leigh do. It's not natural." He is, to his credit, keeping his voice down.

"I didn't make her do anything. She is a grown woman, and if you think there's another adult on the planet that could make her do something she didn't want to do, you don't know her at all, sir."

He blinks at that. "If you were a man I disapproved of, we could settle this on the skeet range. I don't know what to do with you."

"I'm from New England, Clay. We hunt up there, too. If you'd like to go to the range, you can name your weapon. But the outcome won't change my feelings for your daughter, or hers for me. I'll go because I think, if you can get over the whole, gay thing, you and I might actually get along." She takes another sip of tea, and cringes.

"You're not a fan of sweet tea, are you?"

"It's too sweet for my tastes." She replies honestly.

"You get used to it. I hated it too; my mother never made it, but Willie Rae, she just loves it. And I love her." He seems to be saying more than he is saying.

"I'm partial to shotguns." She decides that two can have an unspoken conversation.

He looks at her with a new, but grudging respect. "Hunting rifles, myself."

"We leave tomorrow, but not until the evening."

"I'll pick you up at your hotel at 10. The range has all the muffs, and goggles, and things. Just bring your aim." He wanders off in search of his wife, and Sharon watches him go, sees the same frustration in his skeleton that Brenda gets in hers when an interrogation hasn't gone quite the way she hoped. She takes another sip of tea, and hides the wince. She will learn to love it, in time.


	3. Chapter 3

They ride back to the hotel alone, her parents settled in at home again. Dinner had been stilted, though not unpleasant. Sharon feels the exhaustion in every muscle group on her body, and the irritation seems to roll off of Brenda in waves, as she sits silent in the passenger seat.

"Would you like to talk about it?" Sharon asks, knowing already what Brenda will say, if not verbatim, then in general.

"What is there to talk about, Sharon? You're going to the _gun range_ with my _father._ I have no idea why you'd want to talk now that you've already made the plans." 4 days back, and her accent has thickened perceptibly.

"I will point out, that in my vast study of southern culture, which, admittedly is comprised almost entirely of Gone with the Wind, Pat Conroy novels, and you, it has not escaped my awareness that when one is issued an invitation, one does not refuse, especially if one is courting the inviting party's daughter." Sharon sniffs.

"Courting?" Brenda feels her anger break under the swelling laughter. "Along about the first time you slammed me against my office door, and had your hands under my skirt before we'd even properly kissed, I think we missed the 'courting' phase of things."

"You wouldn't stop talking." Sharon shrugs, as though that's a perfectly normal reason to begin a relationship.

"If that's what happens, I may have to babble more often." Brenda shivers at the memory.

_She'd been hyper aware of Sharon's presence for weeks, months, she'd lost track. But her eyes unfailingly found the woman every time they were in the same vicinity. And Sharon, with those power suits, those jackets that emulated the masculine, but hugged all of her curves, accentuating, even emphasizing the feminine, her hair falling in lazy waves, her legs, bare or in hosiery, and Brenda thought she might be going mad when their eyes would meet. Gazes locked, Brenda would feel the heat surge between her thighs. Fritz noticed her growing distance, and eventually, found an apartment for himself and Joel. Brenda barely realized he was gone, but she knew the color of every blouse Sharon Raydor had ever worn. They crested modestly above the swell of her breast, rarely tantalizing in a revealing way, but Brenda imagined unbuttoning the buttons with her teeth, running her tongue along the path of the necklaces that sometimes draped that expanse of skin. And they fought. God they fought. But even the fighting left Brenda breathless, squeezing her thighs together, counting backwards from 100 by 7s. Until one night, Sharon had come looking for an explanation about why her team had been sent on another wild goose chase. Brenda had stammered a defense automatically, but her eyes were trained on the amethyst pendent resting in the valley of Sharon's breasts. Her self-preservation instinct kicked in, and she'd walked from behind the desk, planning to show the infuriating, delicious woman the door, still mumbling about her team's integrity. Sharon had grabbed her by the arms, spinning them, and kicking the door closed in a surprisingly graceful series of movements, and then Brenda had been against the door, and Sharon's mouth was moving over her throat in a way that made Brenda ponder taking the lord's name in vein, and her hands were under her skirt, and Brenda couldn't have stopped it even if she'd wanted to, her body just arched, surrendering to the onslaught, and she'd come embarrassingly fast, and then again, before Sharon finally brought their lips together. _

"Yes, well. I admit that wasn't my finest moment, but I made up for it later, didn't I?" Sharon is still slightly chagrined at her behavior, though Brenda has consistently pointed out that it was bound to happen sooner or later, and she wasn't complaining anyway.

"True." Brenda watches the heat lightening illuminate the clouded night sky. She looks over at Sharon, who is concentrating on the GPS now, teeth worrying her lower lip as she hits the turn signal. "I almost forgot to tell you," she begins, as they pull to a stop at a red light, "They fixed us a plate, and I made sure to bring the melon balls."

Sharon doesn't want to respond to that, but her body betrays her as the earlier visual of them tangled up on a table in the banquet hall flashes before her.

"Your father is picking me up early, to shoot guns. I think it's probably best if I get at least a few hours of sleep, wouldn't you say?" Her tone is husky, and she knows by Brenda's grin that it has given her away.

"I plan on sleeping with you." Brenda points out, her hand snaking across the console to rest on Sharon's thigh. "But first, I'm going to have my way with you, among the melon balls."

Sharon is staring at the ceiling, as Brenda's tongue works furiously, in concert with her fingers, bringing Sharon closer and closer, then backing off. The melon balls have rolled into the indentation their bodies make on the mattress, landing against Sharon's thighs and ribs with juicy plops. As Brenda reaches a hand up, pinching a nipple, Sharon shouts her climax, the taste of melon sweet on her breath.


	4. Chapter 4

Sharon is uncomfortable. The heat here is ridiculous, and nothing in her wardrobe was appropriate for hauling around a shotgun, so she is wearing a pair of Brenda's jeans, and they are chafing in all the exactly wrong places. Not that there are good places for chafing, but this is worse than she imagined. It doesn't help that Clay actually has a hayseed in his mouth, and that thus far, he's a worse shot than she is by about 6 discs. She's not even trying, and she's lapping him. Right now, they are laying on their bellies, in a vague approximation of a duck blind. Sharon tracks a disk, and then glances at Clay. He is peering at her out of the corner of his eye.

"You're a good shot." He mutters, then quickcocks a bullet, and fires. The disc shatters, and she sees the hayseed roll from one edge of his lip to the other.

"You are as well." She's pretty sure she's sweating beneath her toenails. She's positive she hates the south.

"Fritz was a terrible shot." He glares at her as though it's her fault.

"I saw him shoot a man in the head, in the dark, from over 50 yards away, no laser sight. He saved your daughter's life." She spits the words out like chaw.

"Is'at so? Perhaps he was just havin' me on then."

"Perhaps." She sees two discs fly in quick succession from the west. She chambers and fires, the kickback of the dual burst leaves a place on her shoulder that's going to require ice.

"Nice." He is terse.

"I know." She is tired of pleasant. "I'm not sure how this is supposed to go, Clay. I am in a relationship with your daughter. I know that you don't approve of same sex relationships. I fail to see how spending another hour or four shooting circles out of the sky is going to improve anything but my distance marks."

"It won't. But that shows me you've got spunk. And I can appreciate spunk. Brenda Leigh is feisty, but she lacks spunk." He removes the ridiculous hayseed, pitching it to the ground.

"I see." She doesn't really.

"No you don't. But that's all right too, Sharon. You agreed to come out here. You didn't let me win. You've got a steady hand, and a good eye. And you're a better shot than Fritz. So you won't get any argument from me, about courting my Brenda Leigh." He heaves himself to his feet, and sticks a hand out. She masterfully swallows the snort that bubbles up at the phrase courting, and gingerly accepts the offer, pulling herself to standing.

"Well. I'm thrilled. Are we leaving?" Her hair is flat, now, hanging in lank Joan Baez strands.

"One more stop. Wanna see how you handle a smaller weapon." He walks away.

She follows behind, the sun beats hotly on her head, and she is sure there are hallucinatory bugs eating her alive, though when she looks, her skin is bare.

He pushes open the door to a metal building. It is, quite literally, a shot gun shack. Sharon wants to roll her eyes, but they too, are sweating, and the effort seems too great. There are cubicles, with targets all the way down the length of the narrow room. Each cubicle boasts two tethered pistols, and a tin bucket of rounds. A bucket of rounds make Sharon uncomfortable enough that she forgets about the chafing for a moment. Clay leans his rifle against the wall. Sharon carefully breaks her shotgun down, unchambering the bullets, before leaning it next to the rifle. He gestures to the nearest cube, and smiles widely.

"Ladies choice. Any gun you want, long as it's a .45."

Sharon picks up the gun on the left, knowing Clay is right handed.

"What are we shooting for?"

"Best out of 3 clips. You choose the stakes."

"Winner gets to hog the A/C on the ride home." She is sweating in places that don't have glands. It is hotter in this metal oven, and there are flies drunkenly lazing about the rows of lights above her head.

"Yankee."

Sharon fits the pistol with a clip in record time, and takes her stance. She empties it, one bullet after the other, 8 to center mass, and one to third eye blind. She hits the pull, and brings her target forward. Clay scowls.

"You fire a pistol like a Methodist."

"I don't know how you expect me to respond to that, Clay. It's not as though I brought hotdish to the range."

A grin splits his craggy face, and a strange wheezing sounds startles Sharon. After a minute, she realizes he's laughing. Genuinely laughing. The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkle in the way the Brenda's do, when she's well and truly amused. Sharon smiles, a real smile. Clay is taken with the way it changes her whole face. He supposes Brenda could do worse. And at least Sharon can shoot.

xxx 

Brenda is petulant. She is back on the porch swing, in shorts that raise the blood pressure of any sighted person within 15 miles. It has been hours since Sharon and Clay left, and the sun is well past the zenith, and on its way low, glinting off the chrome of pick up trucks and boats across the way. Willie Rae is knitting, or crocheting, Brenda never could remember which one used hooks and which one used needles. But the yarn is soothing to watch as it flies between those slightly arthritic fingers. It is all browns and oranges and brilliant golds. It looks like Sharon's hair. Brenda kicks at the porch with a bare foot, sending the swing into a lazy parabola of motion.

"He's going to embarrass me to death, I just know it. Mama, he had a _hayseed_ in his mouth when he picked her up. Why she ever agreed to this insanity, I will never know."

"Brenda Leigh. Your father loves you. Sharon loves you. That's enough for them not to shoot each other in the face. We're not republicans, after all." She is rocking in a white wicker chair, focused on her craft at hand.

"Honestly, I'm not sure that's enough to keep them from shooting each other. Sharon doesn't have much patience, and you know how daddy is at the range." She shoves her hair up and off of her neck, as a breeze whispers through the porch.

"Who's taking care of that cat?" Willie Rae asks suddenly.

"Fritz got custody of Joel." Brenda thinks fondly of the small fluffball, and also of the cat.

"Sharon doesn't have any pets either?"

"We work such odd hours, it doesn't seem fair to the animals, Mama."

"So it's just the two of you, rattling around that house?"

"We don't rattle. And how did you know we lived together?"

"You've had on a number of shirts that don't belong to you. Sharon's a little more…blessed…up top, than you are. So I can tell when you're wearing something of hers."

"Oh for heaven's sake Mama. " Brenda blushes.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Brenda Leigh. You come by it honestly."

Brenda brings the swing to a halt, and leaps up, banging into the house.

"Getting' a sweet tea. You want one?" She tosses over her shoulder, hoping that the distraction will end this line of conversation.

"Just some ice water, thank you kindly." Willie Rae hides her smile as she answers. Such a sensitive girl, Brenda Leigh. It's always been so easy to rile her. She glances up at the sound of an approaching engine. "They're back! Might want to get another ice water for your lady friend. And a longneck for your daddy." Willie Rae raises her hand in a short wave as the truck pulls into the drive. The reflection on the glass distorts everything, but she swears they are laughing.


	5. Chapter 5

Brenda uses her hip to push through the screen door, balancing the tray of drinks in her hands. She's grateful for that very short stint as a waitress, because she's sure otherwise the sight of her father and Sharon leaning on each other and laughing would've resulted in a porch full of sweet tea and glass shards. She slides her eyes towards her mother, who's got her eyes on the yarn in her hands as though it might turn into a water moccasin at any moment. She sighs, and sets the tin tray on the railing, balancing it with one hand as she passes a glass of water to Willie Rae. Sharon and Clay have pulled themselves together, and they're mounting the steps with only a few snickers, and as Brenda looks, it's clear that Sharon's laughed so hard her mascara is smudged in the crinkles around her eyes.

"Well. If you two don't look like kitties who got the cream." Willie Rae smiles as she sets the glass on the wobbly table to her left, automatically stabilizing it with her foot. Brenda watches the gesture, so ingrained that she's pretty sure Willie Rae isn't even aware of moving more than her arm. Clay leans in and kisses her cheek, and Brenda can smell the faint scent of Brut and gun smoke wafting from his skin.

"Brenda Leigh, try not to run this one off too. She's dead aim." Clay drops an arm around Sharon's shoulder, and Brenda thinks maybe her jaw makes an audible sound as it unhinges.

"Close your mouth, kitten." Willie Rae is back at her knitting, and Sharon is smiling.

"Kitten?" Her voice is husky with repressed mirth.

"Nicknames. It's kind of a thing down here. Just be glad it's not Peanut, like my cousin." Brenda has come back to herself, at least mostly, and she hands out the drinks, before flopping back down on the swing, patting the cushion next to her.

"Be fair, Brenda Leigh. That boy looked just like a boiled peanut when he was born, all terribly wrinkled and hairless." Clay booms, as he sips his drink, and mops the beads of moisture from his brow.

"I'm sorry. A…did you say _boiled_ peanut?" Sharon sounds aghast.

"They also are kind of a thing down here, but not one of the better things." Brenda smiles, and pushes the swing into a gentle motion.

They lounge on the porch, and Brenda fondly plots the murder of her parents as they bring out the terrible stories from her childhood. Sharon has curled her feet beneath her, her laughter easy and bright on the breeze. Clay has fallen asleep in his wicker chair, and Willie Rae has turned the tangle of yarn into something resembling a washrag, or perhaps the start of a baby blanket. Brenda glances at her watch, and nudges Sharon.

"Mama, it's about time for us to be heading back. It was so nice to spend some time with you. I miss you and Daddy something fierce." Her throat is thick, and she can't help the tear that leaks out. She knows that it's because of Willie Rae that Clay gave Sharon a chance. That because of Willie Rae, Brenda took a chance she might not otherwise have taken, and admitted to her family that she was in love with a woman.

"Brenda Leigh, I miss you too, and I only hope it's not my own funeral or your fathers that brings you down here next. You and Sharon are welcome to visit, we'd love to have y'all."

"I know, Mama. I'm going to try and get down here more often. And you and Daddy can come visit us, too. I think I'd like you to see the new life I'm building. I think I'd do you proud." Brenda wraps her arms around her mother's neck, the powdery scent of her Oil of Olay and jasmine lotion smell like home, and the heat of the evening seems like a blanket she could wrap around them all, her family, here on this tiny porch.

"Brenda Leigh, you already done us proud, kitten." Clay's voice is graveled with sleep, but he hauls himself out of the chair with admirable grace, and throws his arms around his two girls. "Sharon, this is a group hug, so if you're planning on being part of the group, I suggest you hop to it."

Brenda chokes back a sob, as Sharon is at her elbow in an instant, stepping comfortably, if carefully, into the crush of Johnson arms. She is sad that her grandmother is dead. She prefers to pretend like the circle of life doesn't apply to her kin, but in this moment, with the solid, reassuring life in the bodies surrounding her, Brenda thinks maybe things will be okay after all.


End file.
